The Last Unheard Call

At exactly 9:17 p.m. every night, Maya's phone vibrated.

Not because someone called her.

But only because she hoped someone would.

She sat near the window of her modest apartment with her knees pulled to her chest. The lights of the city flickered like memories from long ago. The phone was next to her, face up, quiet, chilly, and merciless.

Her father had died three years before.

Three years later, her thumb was still hovering over his contact name.

"Papa."

She never got rid of it.

Not because she thought she'd get an answer, but because erasing it seemed like losing him all over again.

Every night at 9:17, Maya's dad would call her when she was a kid.

No matter how busy he was.

No matter how weary.

Even if it was merely to ask, "Did you eat?"

"Did you smile today?"

“Good night, my brave girl.”

When her mother died, those calls were her anchor.

And then one night… they stopped.

The last call occurred when Maya was in a meeting.

She hushed the phone.

I’ll call him back, she thought.

She never got the chance.

That night, the hospital called instead.

Now, years later, Maya hit the call button nevertheless.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Voicemail.

She swallowed heavily.

“Hi Papa… It’s me again.”

Her voice cracked, but she continued going.

“I got the promotion today. You said I’d make it someday, remember? I wish you were here to say, “I told you so.”

Silence.

“I still don’t know how to cook rice properly. I still burn it. You’d laugh at me.”

Her fingers trembled.

“I’m tired, Papa. I’m trying to be courageous like you said… yet some days I just want to hear your voice.”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, dripping across the phone screen.

“I’m scared I’ll forget how you sound.”

She finished the conversation and hugged the phone to her chest like it could embrace her back.

The next morning, Maya went to the old house.

Dust coated everything. The walls still smelled strongly of coffee and old books. She wandered inside her father’s room—untouched since the burial.

In the corner stood an old phone recorder.

She pressed play.

Static.

Then… a familiar voice.

“Hello, my brave girl. If you’re listening to this, that means I couldn’t call you anymore.”

Maya sank into the floor.

“I recorded these messages in case I ever missed a call. I didn’t want you to feel alone.”

The recording paused, then continued.

“I’m proud of you—every single day. Even on the days you feel feeble. Especially on those days.”

Her tears filled the room.

“And when you miss me… look at the time. 9:17 p.m. I’ll be thinking of you too.”

Maya held the recorder, heart hurting and healing all at once.

That night, at exactly 9:17 p.m., her phone vibrated again.

This time, she grinned through tears.

Not because someone named her…

…but because she now understood—

Some love never hangs up.

Some voices never fade.

And some goodbyes are just…

incomplete chats.